


Neighbors

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Fallout Modern AU - it all started in a coffee shop [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dildos, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dog REALLY likes his little neighbor-girl, and her bedroom window faces his.</p><p>(Warnings: Nonconsensual voyeurism. No harm comes to any characters, but this is essentially a smutty stalker with a crush story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neighbors

Dog wedges his arm against the door, kicking it open and stomping through while trying to adjust the boxes in his hands. He glances up, swearing as he sees the elevator doors close—

And then swallows the words as the doors slide back open. The tiny woman inside grins at him, teeth dazzling bright against the darkness of her skin and _fuck_ that smile hits him like a fistful of sunshine. He hurries in, the woman’s companion—a young man in a leather jacket and slicked-back pompadour—moving aside to make room for Dog.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

“No worries. What floor?”

Dog glances at the buttons, noting the top floor lit up. “Same as you.”

“Oh?” She peeks up at him with eyes like cloudless skies. “Guess we’re neighbors then. Moving in?” And she’s got to see the scars peeking under his shirt and lining his bare arms, but she’s not _staring_. Not like the boy, whose reflexive smile contains a flinch.

The doors close and the boy shifts awkwardly, thumbs looped in his pockets and Dog knows that being trapped in an elevator with a super mutant makes most humans uncomfortable but the girl doesn’t betray any unease. Dog finds himself fascinated by her mop of red hair, neon-bright and obviously dyed but it’s a good color. It’s like a crest over the half-shaved stubble on the rest of her scalp.

“That’s the plan.” He doesn’t really know what to say after that, and maybe she thinks he’s not feeling chatty because she doesn’t ask anything else afterwards. They ride up in silence, broken only by the elevator stopping and the soft ding as the doors slide open. Dog shakes his head to invite them out before he leaves. But rather than immediately walk down the hall, the little redhead grins again.

“Welcome to the building, neighbor.”

Dog snorts a laugh. “Thanks.”

He hears the boy mutter “really, Jinx? _That’s_ our new neighbor?” as he turns away.

“Hush, Butchie.”

“You saw those _scars_ …?”

“Hush.”

‘Jinx.’ Funny name for a funny girl. He wonders how much of the new ‘neighbor’ he’ll be seeing around, a pleasant thought as he enters his new apartment. Keene is already inside, sprawled on the couch with a bottle in his hand.

“Fuck. Couldn’t wait for me before drinking my beer?”

Keene grins, sharp and lazy like a shark sunning in the shallows. “Last trip, I thought.”

“Yeah.” And gratitude feels thick and awkward, like swallowing a honeycomb, but he musters enough to say “thanks for helping me move in.”

“Mutants got to stick together.”

And Dog thinks of a wiry girl with pale eyes who held open the elevator for an eight-foot stranger covered in scars—

“Yeah.” No sense in wanting what he can’t have. “Mutants gotta stick together.”

 

.O.O.

 

He wakes up groggy in the morning, empty bottle rolling on the floor as he sits up. No alarm set, but his body remembers the rhythm of predawn training. He stares out the window out of habit, even though he doubts the view of the opposing window on the other wing of the apartment building has gotten any better.

A flash of red catches his attention and his gaze drifts down. The little neighbor-girl’s heading out in skimpy running shorts, slit high to show off those lean legs—and she’s not showing off for _him_ he knows, or maybe for anyone else, but he likes it. Her shirt’s a plain white tee, broad straps of a neon pink sports bra just visible through the fabric. The sun’s rising but his gut twists at the idea of this friendly little neighbor out jogging all alone. At least until he spots the thin cylinder gripped in one hand. Pepper spray. Smart girl.

Fuck, that was patronizing.

He wonders if it would be too obvious if he threw on a pair of shorts and shoes and went down to try joining her… but even if he somehow made it down in time to catch her, he still smells like beer.

So he takes a shower, hot water sluicing off last night’s stink and clearing the fog from his head. He wonders if she takes her showers hot, steam caressing her form like a lover, or if she prefers them cold after working out, the icy water creating goose pimples over her flesh, nipples hard and peaked—

 _Fuck_.

No sense in wanting what he can’t have, so he turns the shower dial to frigid to shake those thoughts.

Normally he’d fuss around the kitchen and fix up a real breakfast, but he spent the rest of move-in day devouring beer and pizza instead of grocery-shopping. So he takes a slice of cold pizza and chews mechanically, sitting by the window and waiting, waiting—for what, exactly?

For her.

He knows it’s stupid, he knows it’s obsessive, he knows it’s creepy and if she realized he was watching for her she’d be disgusted, not charmed, no matter how many stupid movies try to claim otherwise, but it doesn’t stop him from waiting.

First he tells himself it will only be for a few minutes.

Then five minutes.

Perhaps ten.

After seventeen minutes, she returns, stretching her arms overhead and rolling her shoulders as she saunters to the front door. He likes her loose-limbed gait, the way her hands flutter like wings as she spreads her arms wide.

The next few weeks give him more things to like.

The way she bundles herself inside her hoodie on chilly mornings, pulling the drawstrings so tight that only her nose and eyes are visible. The university logo on her book bag, the way she casually drapes it over one shoulder with her hand resting over it, like her palm’s caressing it, and the little squirm of envy he feels for a fucking _logo_ , stupid as it is. She always holds the elevator for him, even when he’s just coming in and the doors are almost closed. She always smells so good, her scent captured in that small space—she smells _of_ good things, fresh-ground coffee and spicy shampoo, floral soap with a citrus edge, but she also smells so good under it all. A warm summer scent, rich and muddled like blood and wine. Her laughter’s like rain from a drunken sky and he _loves_ it, loves the effervescent tingle that tickles up his throat in echo whenever he hears her laugh.

 

.O.O.

 

He also makes the happy discovery that his window faces hers. He looks across the way out of habit before realizing the apartment window facing his has its curtains back as well. The lights are on, a dark figure silhouetted against the wall and dancing with wild abandon. He recognizes the shape even before spotting the red hair flopping all about, Jinx strumming on an air guitar and mouth open, belting along with whatever music she’s got. It’s sweet and goofy and just so fucking _cute_ he wants to roll her up in his arms and bury his face against her scalp, breathe her in and just _never_ fucking let her go…

She looks up and he freezes, jaw slack, but she laughs and waves without a trace of shame.

Encouraged, he attempts dancing back, fingers picking at an invisible guitar as he shuffles side to side. Even from this distance—and nightkin vision is better than human, something he is suddenly so grateful for—he can tell she’s giggling, shoulders quaking as she splays her fingers over her mouth.

He doesn’t want to alarm her so he forces himself away after a few minutes, ostentatiously browsing around on his laptop. A sneaked peek confirms that she’s stopped dancing too, but knowing that she lives across from him—and with the angles being what they are, with his room having the only view directly into hers—creates a tight curl of warmth in his belly. He will get to see her dance again.

 

.O.O.

 

 

And a lot _more_ than dance, once the warm nights means she starts leaving her window open all the time. It’s become a ritual, where he gets a drink—beer for the nights he’s feeling maudlin, water for when he’s still clinging to some shreds of self-respect—and sits by the window, lights off and looking across the way. Just seeing her bedtime routine is charming, brushing her teeth while she lays out papers and books for her morning class, wandering off to spit and drop off the toothbrush, then coming back before closing the drapes…

But she does not close the curtains tonight.

Instead, she flicks the lights off before peeling out of her shirt, breasts lean and dark and so utterly fucking _perfect_ as she yawns with her arms stretched overhead, _right_ in front of the window. Then squirming out of her jeans, and his heart hammers up his throat as she hooks her thumbs into the side of her thong, pulling down and exposing the dark curls over her groin. The view could not be more perfect if she tried and for one heart-stopping moment he dares to hope, dares to dream that she might know and even now is waiting for him to gather the courage to walk down the hall and knock on her door, to rake his fingers through her hair and thrust his tongue against her sex.

Reality sets in as she turns, scratching her hip before lying on the bed. On top of the covers, sprawling back with one knee bent and her head resting on the palm of her hand. Not expecting to be watched, and she would be safe in that assumption if he were a human but his FEV-enhanced senses let him see through the dim shadows of her room.

Oh _shit_ , that’s… hot. Really hot.

She’s biting her lip, trailing her fingers down the midline of her body from ribs to belly to cunt, rubbing over the lips of her labia and he can just imagine how she’d _smell_ , sweet and musky with the scent of arousal. Two fingers, one on each side of her pussy and just grinding slowly, letting him think of his hands on hers, propping her up in his lap and teasing her with circular motions.

He unfastens his jeans, pushing the worn material down and pulling his cock out. Not fully hard yet, but easily remedied as he begins stroking. Trying to imagine her hands, small and soft and probably not reaching all the way around—and maybe that’s an arrogant thought, but she’s just so _small_ and that’s part of the appeal, thinking about how careful he’d have to be with her. How tight it would feel inside her, getting her so wet she’s gushing with every thrust…

The fantasy’s interrupted as she pauses, still rubbing herself but now freeing her other hand, sucking on her fingers before placing them at the junction of her legs. He imagines her clit hard and throbbing. He can’t see the details from here, not with the distance and her hands in the way because this is just her playing with herself, not intended for an audience, but that’s part of the fun. The guilty thrill of knowing that he’s watching this intimate moment, this secret thing and it lets him pretend they are more than just neighbors. He wonders if she just rubs indirectly, letting the hood of her clit take off the pressure, or if she pushes back and goes for the more intense stimulation. She squirms, toes curling and legs straightening, rigid with tension and—

Fuck, _yes_! She’s rubbing her clit now and fingering herself. He bets she’s wet and silky to the touch, body throbbing as she chases that orgasm. He picks up the pace with his hand, jerking up and down and wishing he was there, that he could pry her legs apart, bury his mouth against her and make her moan and scream because she’s so _quiet_ he can tell, biting her lip and trying not to wake up her roommate. Dog would just bring her back to his apartment where he could just fuck and pleasure her until she collapses in her own sweat. Then he would kiss her and start all over again, bringing her peak after peak and then…

Her body jolts, back arching like an invisible string hooked above her belly was yanked up. He thinks about how that would feel on top of her, elbows braced on the bed and her body grinding against him, screaming his name but muffled against the wall of his chest. And _that’s_ the last trigger, groaning as his cock twitches in his hand, spilling semen across his jeans.

He doesn’t care about the mess though. He can always do laundry later.

Right now, it’s better to watch her yawn and roll over, wiping her fingers on the blanket and sleeping curled on her side.

 

.O.O.

 

He enters the laundry room with his dirty hamper balanced on one hip, spotting the cute neighbor-girl leaning against one of the driers. She’s holding some sort of e-reader, and he’s torn between the desire to make small talk and recognition that interrupting her reading’s at least some shade of rude. But her machine dings and she closes the device, setting it in the bottom of her hamper before pouring the freshly-tumbled clothes on top.

Casually, worried that even her human ears can hear his heart hammering, he asks, “What are you reading?”

“ _Carmilla_.”

“For school?”

“Nah.” She smiles, bright as a new penny with her hair falling over one eye. She puffs it out of the way. “For fun.”

“What’s it about?”

“Lesbian vampires.” At his startled laugh, she protests “I’m serious! I’ve been on a classics kick lately.”

“I don’t read much,” Dog admits. “Never had much patience.”

“Anything you do like?”

Dog lunges for that opportunity and she opens up like a flower. She recommends _Treasure Island, Dracula, Around the World in Eighty Days_ … Dog vows to make a trip to the library, if only so he can have more to talk about with her.

 

.O.O.

 

So that gets added to the nightly ritual. He holds the book in one hand, cupping the spine like a caress. These books are so _small_ despite the heft of the hardback covers, rich paper smell wafting every time he turns the page. He reads of distant lands and strange fictions, little pieces of fantasy and horror that no matter how compelling, never manage to make him forget that he’s reading because of _her_. He knows Marcus is not so secretly relieved that he’s started reading—because no matter how much the impromptu ‘mayor’ of the local meta human community might try to smooth things over, Dog is not stupid enough to think that Marcus isn’t aware of the nightkin tendency to obsess over things—because the super mutant thinks books are a safer fixation than Keene’s antihuman hostility. It’s socially acceptable even, like Barrows’ gardening.

But Marcus doesn’t know that when he reads, he thinks about little Jinx sitting next to him, leaning against him with her hair soft against his chest, the bristles of her scalp tickling his arm when she wriggles closer. Reading him stories, high-pitched squeals and twitters of laughter when she gets excited, cheeks flushed and eyes dancing and _fuck_ , maybe even reading him some dirty stories or making up her own to whisper in his ear. Stories where Frankenstein’s monster takes his bride and lives off in secluded joy. Stories where the little mermaid pulls the prince out of his world and into her own, where her kisses are air and he lives as long as she loves him. Or maybe just skipping the romance and going straight to the heat and action, filthy phrases tumbling out like fireworks and talking dirty, reading out dog-eared chapters from her favorite smut…

He reads with the lights off, white paper tinted pale blue by the color shift of FEV-induced night vision. Lights off not to be seen, though what he wouldn’t give for the fizzing hum of a stealth field so he could slip into her room and watch up close and intimate.

Fuck. That’s a bad thought. A wrong thought, a guilty thought, not one that he’s proud of.

Still, she leaves the curtains open and he gets to watch the show. She masturbates regularly and he savors all her little variations with the appreciation of a connoisseur. Fast and frantic, going straight for the clit and rubbing until she twitches once, twice, and sighs into her pillow before rolling over; that’s her quickie session. Sweet and brisk like sugar melting across the tongue. Then the more extended nights, maybe where she’s feeling lonely or just in the mood for something longer. Those nights she goes slow and gentle, her own best lover, trailing her fingers over her skin and exploring herself. He loves those nights too, watching where she likes to touch herself—the gentle swell beneath her breasts, the curve of her inner thigh, the way she pinches her nipples—trying to memorize her like a sunset, like a poem, like a song on the radio because he could do all that _for_ her if she ever asked.

He would kiss her sweet and slow, slipping his hands over her breasts, her belly, her thighs, squeezing her open and careful to flick his tongue over the dip of her navel because he knows it would make her laugh. He could live off her laughter, sweeter than fruit and bursting with joy. Then trace his finger over her folds, gathering moisture before thrusting inside, crooking up and rubbing, matching the way she curls in on herself and making her moan sweet music. Adding another finger, stretching her patient and gentle until she begs him to try with his cock. He’d always been big even before mutating and there were some women who liked big men with scars and swagger, but he’s _much_ bigger now. Terrifying even, but _fuck_ he’d be gentle for her. Hell, he’d be anything for her. Whatever she wanted.

He’d have to be careful. Kiss her neck and ease her into position with her cute little ass up in the air, bent forward with him behind her. Maybe—well, _fuck_ she has a cute ass. Maybe he could try anal with her sometime, even if she’d be so tight she might bruise his cock. But that’s not a first date activity. Or a first fuck activity. Instead, he’d just push slow and careful into her wet cunt, easing in and letting her set the pace, rocking back against him. Wait until she relaxes, then lick his finger and play with her clit, keeping her hot and excited. Grip her hips, start thrusting once she’s comfortable—and _fuck_ , then maybe once she’s relaxed enough he could really go to town. Hard, fast—he’d be gentle if she wants, but he wants to fucking _own_ her too, prove to himself that she wants him as much as she wants her, because she wouldn’t _let_ him do that unless she _wanted_ him.

But she’d have to want him first.

 

.O.O.

 

So when she reaches for her toy chest, his heart skips. He’s watched her with toys too—and those are _great_ nights, some of the best in his mental playlist.

She has a cute little forked vibe, the tips kind of like rabbit ears, that fits perfectly in the palm of her hand and she can barely keep it in place over her clit for more than five or ten seconds at a time with its intensity. That’s fun, watching her squirm and wriggle, biting her lip and hopping it in tiny increments over her pussy, her clit, occasionally stopping with it pulsing on the bedcover because she just can’t _take_ it anymore. He likes to think about how he’d tease her with it, tie her arms behind her and pry her legs open, kiss her clit and work over her with his tongue to get her nice and slick before setting the vibe on her. Pinning her in place and positioning those tiny motors _right over_ her clit, setting it on high and making her come until it hurts, until she’s begging for him to turn it off and just let her collapse in place. But he _wouldn’t_ let her relax, oh no—he’d force her on her knees, kneeling between his legs and press his cock to her lips. Order her to suck, watch her eyes pop and her mouth open, the way she’d kiss him and blush just before taking him in…

Fuck, that was fun to watch.

He used to feel, well, _wrong_ about watching her and the way that little edge of roughness would sneak in. It’s already wrong watching her like this, objectifying her, dreaming about her—he knows it’s not romantic. Not by any healthy standard, but it doesn’t stop him from _wanting_ her. But part of watching her has been learning what she likes, and the tiny little sunshine girl likes things a little rough too. He’s seen her with wooden clothespins, crossing her legs and squeezing tight, tears dotting her eyes as she experiments with setting the tiny pinchers over her breasts and nipples. He’s seen her roll over in bed, slapping her fingers and her palms against her thighs and ass, wriggling and… well, experimenting? He figures she’s a smart girl, with the school and the reading and all, and maybe that’s why she likes to fiddle around. And that’s part of the appeal; he bets she’d be willing, _enthusiastic_ in trying just about anything he wanted. Not to mention making her own suggestions…

Tonight she’s pulling out a giant dildo. The thing’s huge in her hands, so thick her fingers don’t meet when she grips it around the thick shaft, and modeled after a cock. A big green _mutant_ cock.

That’s got his attention.

She doesn’t try and slide it in right away—something that he regrets at first because _fuck_ that would be hot to see that thing stretch her wide, to look at her pussy lips all puffy and slick as she sits slowly—but instead takes a generous squirt of lube, running a slick hand all over the silicone and twisting up and down. She sits cross-legged with the dildo propped upright on the bed, textured balls at the base helping it stand. Dog thinks about how it would feel to have one small hand cupping his balls just like that, the other twisting up his cock and running her finger over the underside of his shaft. Giving her directions, or maybe just watching her wide-eyed wonder because that’s part of the charm too, just how excited she is about everything. Even with the toy she leans forward, mouth parted and tongue poking just beyond the white of her teeth in concentration.

When she leans forward to press her lips to the glistening tip of the dildo, his breathing picks up. Either she _really_ likes giving head or she’s practicing for someone. (Or maybe both, a guilty squirm of pleasure writhing in his gut at the thought.) Opening her mouth wide, lips soft and tongue extended, she starts kissing and sucking at the tip. Sloppy efforts, but he gives her points for trying anyway. The toy’s too big for her mouth, her cheeks bulging and eyebrows crinkling as she attempts to suck it in, but _fuck_ that’s hot. Especially when after she realizes she can’t give a traditional blowjob, she _doesn’t stop_. Instead she trails her lips, pressing them gently against the swell of the glans and flicking her tongue over the molded veins.

Fog obscures his vision and he realizes he’s pressed his nose to the glass, breath steaming the window. Fucking pathetic.

He wipes the window clean, thinking she’s either got to be practicing for a lover or maybe she’s, well, _craving_ mutant cock in her. He hopes it’s craving, because _fuck_ he’s just down the hall from her and if it’s just size she wants he bets he’s at least as big as that toy. Hell, he’d just love her to love him even if it only started out with her wanting him for his cock.

She’s leaning back in the bed, pillow propped against the wall and knees bent, braced wide. Her cunt’s absolutely gorgeous, glistening and slick, labia puffy and swollen already and oh _fuck_ she’s trying to slide that monster cock in. He already knows it’s not going to work, not at that angle, but she doesn’t—and watching that thing bump up against her sex, tip trailing through her wetness and her clenching toes as she tries and fails to slide it in… oh fuck, that’s just _insanely_ hot.

Smart girl quickly figures out the problem though, so instead props up the toy again, straddling it with her knees on the bed and that little pink vibe in her hand as she slowly sits down. This works better, and it’s just so hot and fucking _obscene_ watching that thing disappear inside her, one slow inch at a time. She only slides down a couple inches—maybe a thumb’s depth, one of her tiny thumbs, not one of his—before biting her lip, thighs trembling. Then up again, the toy’s gloss changing texture from her fluids mixed with the lube. Then down, this time with the vibe over her clit and oh _fuck_ she’s beautiful, eyes scrunched shut as she rocks up and down in tiny pulses, waves of pleasure centered around her clit and pussy and _fuck_ that made the difference, somehow her tiny body sliding down to accommodate more of that massive cock. Not all the way, not that her ass is resting on the bed or against the base, but so much more of it. Watching her expression, he’s not sure if she’s _happy_ exactly, just… satisfied? Smug? A chuckle, breasts quivering, and she keeps that little vibrator in place, tapping it against her clit with her palm resting on her vulva, groaning and her hair sweat-plastered to her scalp.

The rest of the show’s less exciting, visually at least—she plays with her vibe and probably orgasms at least three times (he’s starting to recognize the way her body tightens and her eyes shut, the way she bites her lip and her body rocks before she relaxes) before tiring, sliding off the dildo and setting it aside on a towel. Girl’s exhausted after that little display, too tired to clean up her toys.

Mostly, Dog just replays that initial penetration, the way she just _tried_ and her determination to fit that thing inside. Even if she can’t suck cock (and really, who sucks a dildo to masturbate? There’s got to be _someone_ she’s hoping to try that on) that doesn’t matter to him. Hell, it never would have mattered even if he couldn’t fit inside her pussy, not when she’s got those delicate hands and soft lips. It does nothing to diminish the warmth of her smile or the silver rain of her laughter.

He falls asleep praying she’s got a thing for mutants.

 

.O.O.

 

Dog grunts, flat on his back and lifting the massive set of weights overhead. Baud mutters encouragement as Dog pushes through the last of his set, helping him place the bar back on the rack. With a groan of satisfaction, Dog sits up and swipes his towel across his face.

“Where’s Brax?” he asks, glancing at the clock.

“Yoga.” Baud takes a swig from his water bottle, sitting on a nearby bench in the meta human side of the gym. Gym facilities fully upgraded to meta human scale are still enough of a rarity that even Keene is willing to tolerate this mixed environment. While all clients are welcome, ghouls and humans tend towards one side and mutants and nightkin to the other simply due to the equipment available and the sheer size differences between the two groups.

Still, the group classes are open for all—something that Keene scoffs at, lips twisting into their habitual sneer. “It took this place _far_ too long to become adequately supplied to MHS standards. Those mixed classes are a joke.”

Baud bites back, snickering as he leans into Keene’s face. “You just hate that a human can outbend you any day.”

“Yoga? Bah! What use is being ‘calm’ and ‘flexible’? Just another way of saying ‘weak’!”

“Hell, you’d appreciate flexibility more if you ever got laid.”

Keene looms tall and angry, growling, “Want me to stuff you in the trash again?”

Normally Abraxia acts as a buffer between the two; something Dog is completely inadequate to manage. He likes Keene well enough, and is grateful for his friendship even if he doesn’t understand his animosity towards humans. The world has enough assholes without thinking mutation has anything to do with it. Baud’s a good sparring partner, and he likes drinking beer and watching stupid movies with him. But Baud and Keene together are volatile at best.

“Fuck, maybe both of you could use some yoga.” Dog swats a hand between the two of them as he stands. “What time does the class finish up?”

“Fifteen minutes. Too late to join, but can always watch.” Baud’s face splits in a grin. “Yoga pants were created by a _genius_.”

“You’re disgusting,” Keene mutters. But he doesn’t protest as the three wander from the weight room to stand outside the class window. Abraxia immediately stands out, as much for the ash-purple of her skin as her height, towering Amazonian over the rest of the class as she twists, bends, and balances into the various positions.

However, Dog’s attention goes to a familiar blaze of red hair. The little neighbor-girl’s in there too, ass in the air and hands on the ground, limbs forming a perfect triangle. Those tight black pants may as well be pasted on.

“Genius, I tell you,” Baud sighs. He elbows Dog, chuckling. “And that pose is downward dog.”

Keene cracks his knuckles, scowling. “I am leaving. See you Tuesday, Dog.”

Dog mumbles his goodbye, hoping Baud takes his watching as more general enjoyment than specific interest. They wait for the class to finish and when the instructor bows towards the class before dismissing them, Baud chuckles, “Makes you want to take yoga, right?”

The class is mostly ladies, pouring out laughing and talking. Jinx brightens when she spots Dog, waving and he wonders if it would push his luck to offer to walk her back to the apartment complex…

“Next time _join_ instead of just watching, you creepers!” Abraxia chortles, slapping Baud across the back. She pulls Dog in with a loose hug across the shoulders and he blinks, momentarily disoriented and trying to find his neighbor again.

Too late; she’s already found her roommate, planting her hands on her hips and popping one knee out in the most fucking _adorable_ pose, all mock indignation. He punches her in the arm and they start laughing at something or other. Joining in would be both pathetically obvious and intrusive.

So he listens to Baud and Abraxia squabble, and wonders about the benefits of yoga.

 

.O.O.

 

He closes _Treasure Island_ , thinking about Long John Silver and pirates and… what the hell, sexy pirates. It’s about time for the little neighbor-girl to go to bed, and it’s Friday so maybe he’ll get lucky and this will be a long night. Last week she’d played with a stainless steel plug in her ass, shaped like a comma and weighted and _fuck_ he doesn’t know how that feels for her but he can imagine fucking her slowly, the toy making her already tight pussy clench even more fiercely as he rocks her back, thrusting his hips to meet hers…

Wait, fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_.

Jinx is entering her room, yeah, laughing and cute as ever. Tight jeans and a cropped red shirt showing off her navel, but _fuck_ she’s dragging someone with her. A lanky mutant, his skin yellow-green and blushing furious purple as she tugs his wrist. She slams the door shut behind him and practically _leaps_ into his arms.

Dog doesn’t know whether to keep watching (so wrong, guilt and shame and jealousy twisting inside him like poison) or give up and sleep.

Paralysis makes his decision as she pushes that lucky sonofabitch into the bed, and Dog imagines the human-sized frame groaning. Her hands peel up his shirt, yanking it over his head. Her partner’s blinded by his own shirt as she sneaks down, trailing kisses over his exposed chest, nibbling and licking and undoing his pants with shaky fingers. But he works his way free, tossing the shirt aside and leaning back, helping her work him out of the pants and Dog can’t help staring at him, measuring him and biting his tongue so hard he tastes copper-sweet blood.

Yeah, he’s big—next to Jinx. For a mutant or nightkin, this one’s on the short side. Lanky, and way too _hesitant_ for Jinx. She’s sunshine and whiskey, a hurricane who can knock you over with the force of her laughter. She needs someone who can push and tease, who isn’t afraid to grab her and bite her shoulder, pry her legs apart and lick the gushing wetness flowing from her cunt.

But this one’s fumbling and shy, letting her strip herself before daring to reach a hand to her chest, tracing broad fingers over the line of her collar and making slow circles over her nipples. Dog’s not surprised when she pushes him back, rubbing her nose against his and making like she’s going to devour him in kisses. The man’s cock is already hard, bumping up between them as she giggles, working down and _fuck_ it’s like watching her with the dildo again. There’s no doubt now that had been just practice, her hand circling his cock and her mouth hot on him…

Fuck, this is really wrong.

But it’s really hot.

Even the sick burn of jealousy adds an edge as Dog unzips himself, unable to tear his eyes away as Jinx, _his_ neighbor-girl even if she doesn’t belong to him, the absolutely fucking best thing in this whole fucking city, fucks another man.

Fuck that was a lot of fucks.

Watching her lick him from base to tip, pressing her mouth over the very swell of his penis—it’s easier to pretend it’s a porno, that it’s just some actress who looks a hell of a lot like Jinx, and that makes it easier to watch. Or maybe pretending that she’s doing it for _him_ , Dog, another little show to get him hot. Because even if she’s sucking on the green mutie’s cock, even if she’s kissing his chest and straddling his lap and wrapping her legs around him, easing down with a gasp and her eyes fluttering shut—it’s just a game for her, something to get them both hot and bothered. Because no matter how hot it is with another man, Dog _knows_ he can do it better. He could be harder, rougher, he could make her _scream_ with joy. He knows the places to touch her because he’s been watching her, he knows where to kiss her and he’d be gentle as falling snow if she needed it.

But _fuck_ it’s hot to watch her suck cock.

It’s even hotter watching her fuck another man, the way she wraps herself around him like a melody, the way she kicks her foot against his back, urging him faster. The way she licks her finger and rubs it down between her legs and Dog wants to howl and break the window because _fuck_ that should be her partner’s job. Lazy fucker’s just leaning back, face glowing with joy and trepidation and arms shaking and _no_ , Jinx deserves _so much better_ than a selfish, shitty lay. He raises a hand to her hip, all gentle hesitancy while stroking her, lifting slightly but letting Jinx set the pace. Dog remembers being afraid of breaking her too but he’s _seen_ her masturbate, he _knows_ she can take it harder and faster. Hell, she _likes_ the hard stuff.

He can’t stop staring.

It’s agony. It’s eternity. It’s far too short. She gasps, body shaking, and Dog knows she’s coming but why the _fuck_ couldn’t that asshole give her more than one orgasm? Why not taste that sweet pussy, press her into the mattress and give her the kind of intensity that would turn her bones to jelly? And he _really_ wishes they’d worn a condom because _fuck_ even if mutants are sterile, who knows what this asshole might give her? And he fucking _hates_ the idea of anyone else coming inside her even as he watches that jerk groan, biting his hand to keep from roaring as he thrusts up and in one last time.

Jinx slips off him with a kiss, white seed trickling out of her body. Dog hates it, wishing it was his cum slicking her legs.

The bed’s ample enough for Jinx, but far too small for both her and her mutant fucker. Dog can’t even bring himself to think of the word ‘lover.’ It _has_ to be just sex between them, nothing more. Has to be the only reason this amazing woman’s sleeping with such an obvious asshole. The mutant rolls on his side, arm braced under his head as an impromptu pillow while she spoons against him.

Dog would rip out his heart to take that man’s place.

 .O.O.

In time, that green fucker gets better at it—at least he moves with more certainty when little Jinx pounces on him, cupping her ass and kissing her head. But Dog hates how whenever he sees them together, it’s always Jinx who has to initiate, to jump into his arms or pull him in the warm circle of her embrace. She deserves to be wanted, to feel the same passion she so eagerly bestows.

He wants her so badly.

Dog still prefers watching her solo sessions, but there are nights now where she’s gone and her bedroom remains dark. Probably over at his place instead. Those are almost as bad as the nights when they’re tangled up in her sheets, the mutant’s feet dangling over the edge and Jinx on top, giggling as she braces her elbow against the wall while climbing all over him. Then there’s that trickle of anger and frustration and confusion, because sometimes he wants to grab Jinx and fuck her hard, and it’s not that he wants to be there _instead_ of that green asshole, but he wants to be there _with_ them. Kiss her hard and pull the breath from her lungs. Flip her over and _show_ that fucker how it’s done.

Dog’s grateful for the Halloween party to distract him.

 

.O.O.

 

Dog throws his hands up in disgust as Charles beats him yet _again_ in that stupid racing game. The lanky human laughs, offering “best two of three?”

“Best five of seven by now. Let the man go in peace,” Marcus rumbles, affectionately slapping his boyfriend on the back. Charles is one of the few humans who could handle that, nearly seven feet in height himself, but he still winces. They didn’t opt for any ‘couples’ costumes, but both dressed as zombies for the party.

They are absolutely fucking disgusting, but Dog’s happy for Marcus.

Unlike Keene.

The nightkin fumes by the punchbowl, glaring at Charles. Even in his skeleton costume, skull and bones paint obscuring his face, his dislike is near-palpable.

“Thought this was supposed to be a mutant party,” he growls.

“They’re dating. Besides, we used to be human too.” Dog ladles another cup of punch, in no mood to deal with Keene’s surliness. Not when he’s missing the little neighbor-girl at least. He wonders if she’s dressed up for a party tonight and if it’s sexy. Or even if not, he’s wearing a police costume with plastic cuffs on his belt and he can think of some _really_ fun arrests he could make…

“How many of _them_ see us as human?” Keene demands.

And Dog thinks of a bright-eyed girl with a smile like a fistful of sunshine.

“And here comes another one.”

Keene’s muttered comment directs Dog’s attention to the door, where a familiar-looking super mutant dressed in a white T-shirt _far_ too tight for self-respect trails a much smaller person dressed in a… dinosaur costume? The mutant’s shirt has ‘TOKYO’ scrawled in what looks like black marker, so the other’s costume clicks into place. Godzilla. Though at five feet in height, the little Godzilla’s the smallest person in the apartment.

“Finally! Someone shorter’n me!” Charles whoops, waving from the couch.

“Watch out or I’ll rampage all over you!” Godzilla calls back. The voice is female, and she pops her hands on her hips in an oddly familiar pose.

Marcus cuts in, pumping Tokyo’s hand and giving a side-hug in greeting. “That’s my job. I’m Marcus. Nice to finally meet you, by the way. I keep telling Fawkes to bring you around, but the asshole won’t listen.”

“I know! I’m Jinx, and it’s nice to finally meet some of his friends outside his D&D group…”

They wander into friendly chatter but Dog tunes it out, heart stopped cold.

No sexy costume tonight then.

Keene drains his cup before punching Dog in the arm. “You all right?”

“Godzilla’s my neighbor,” he says in dumb shock. Fuck, he’s seen her and Tokyo or Fawkes or whatever the fuck’s his name going at it like rabbits, and all he can think is that he could do such a better job fucking her if she just crooked her finger at him.

Fawkes isn’t so tall. Lean for a mutie. Soft-looking, the way he slumps. Dog could beat the shit out of him real easy.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he grimaces. Picking a fight might make him feel better for a couple of minutes, but not like the neighbor-girl would just go home with the winner. And then Barrows would kick him out.

“She giving you problems?”

“Nah. Friendly girl. Real nice, actually.” Keene shoots him a suspicious look, so Dog affects nonchalance. He must have done a good job since Keene doesn’t ask any further and drifts off to another conversation.

“Hey neighbor!”

He looks down, and _fuck_ she’s adorable with her smiling face surrounded by rubber teeth, even if she’d look better as a sexy pirate or something that would show off her ass and belly. Not that her tits aren’t nice, but—shit. His mind’s wandering.

“Hey. Small world.” He attempts a carefree grin even though his stomach roils. Even watching her fuck someone else, it’s easy to pretend she’s _his_ and doing it like a private porno. But it’s so much harder when she’s up close and personal and everyone knows she came with Fawkes.

“Is there booze in the punch?”

“Yeah. Might want to go easy though, since it’s meant for meta humans.” And trust Keene to snicker about it if she ends up passing out after less than one cup.

She makes a face, eyes squinching as she sticks her tongue out. “Nah, no alcohol for me. Not twenty-one yet.”

He can’t help laughing, though it turns into a coughing fit as he tries to restrain it. “No one else will care.” Picking at the cuff of his sleeve, he amends that statement. “Well, Barrows might. But I wouldn’t worry too much. You’re in college, right? You could be drinking at any party tonight if you really wanted.”

“Yeah, but Fawkes would mind. Is there soda?”

“Is he your boyfriend or your chaperone?” It takes all his willpower to keep that from sounding too accusing, but she chuckles.

“Little of column A, little of column B. But shouldn’t a cop be more worried about law-breaking?” She reaches up to flick his plastic badge and _fuck_ what he wouldn’t give to bend her over a table and order her to spread her legs…

The costume’s got nowhere to hide his hard-on though, so he corrals those thoughts, dropping his hand to cover the abrupt swelling. “How’s a cop supposed to arrest Godzilla?”

She giggles, fanning her fingers over her lips. “Hey, if Vimes could arrest a dragon… Discworld,” she clarifies at his confused expression. “Really good book series.”

Finally, something he can latch on to. “I read those books you recommended. _Dracula_ was great, and real timely with Halloween and all. _Frankenstein_ too, and I read that _Around the World in Eighty Days_. Just had to take the time to read ‘em.”

She squeals with delight, clapping her hands, and he wonders if that’s what she sounds like during orgasm. “I told you you’d like them!” Her tail wiggles behind her with the movement, wagging in her enthusiasm.

He pulls a Nuka Cola from the fridge for her, listening to her gush about her favorite characters and making new recommendations and he could just stand in the kitchen and listen to her talk about books all night. Her eyes sparkle, bright and effervescent and the way her thumb tickles over the condensation on the side of the can makes his cock twitch. If he leaned in to kiss her, she’d taste sweet and bubbly and she’s gorgeous even in that ridiculous Godzilla outfit… but eventually her sonofabitch boyfriend calls her name and she starts, looking guilty.

“Sorry for talking your ear off! It was nice seeing you.” She squeezes his arm, smiling like the sunrise before turning back to that lucky asshole. He wonders how the hell such an uptight _bastard_ got such an amazing girlfriend and swallows his disappointment. Some people were just born lucky.

His mood only worsens as the party goes on. Jinx is just fucking _precious_ , laughing like music and whooping when she beats Charles at that stupid videogame. Watching her lean against Fawkes, sneaking him kisses whenever he’s turned away, making that scrawny fucker blush and stammer… fuck, it’s just not _fair_. And guilt twists in his gut that he even thinks that, because it’s not fair to Jinx either, not if she’s happy. Just because he _likes_ her (obsesses over her, knows he’d fall in love if she gave him half a chance) doesn’t mean he’s entitled to her.

Even scarfing fistfuls of candy can’t sweeten his mood.

So sick with guilt and sour envy, he leaves the party early and claims a headache when concerned host ‘Sheriff Hartman’ asks if he’s all right.

He spends the rest of the evening browsing porn, drinking, and hoping she’s having a good time.

 

.O.O.

 

He gets into that Discworld series, and she’s right, it _is_ good. There’s a lot to read, and that’s also good—gives him something to focus on besides the usual holiday doldrums. His family’s never been close, and after the FEV… well, there’s no going home again. And Keene’s a good friend, but not much for holiday cheer.

He wonders what the neighbor-girl’s doing for winter break. Going home? Introducing her boyfriend to the family? Swallowing feels like a hot knife sliding down his throat. Fawkes is supposed to be some smart teacher-man, not a scarred fighter with mismatched eyes. Nightkin or no, Dog knows he’s not the kind of man a college girl would want to bring home to her parents.

He wonders if she’s fucked him while wearing one of those red seasonal hats yet.

It’s a lonely Christmas at his apartment, not even mustering enough energy to go over to visit Abraxia or Baud.

 

.O.O.

 

Christmas sucks, but New Year’s a blur as he goes to Keene’s place. Barrows’ got another holiday party but Dog shies away, not sure he can stand seeing Jinx and that-fucker-Fawkes in close proximity.

He doesn’t see them again until well into January, days tumbling into one another like broken promises.

 

.O.O.

 

Dog’s breath fogs the air and he walks with his hands tucked in the front of his sweatshirt, trying to keep warm. About to turn the corner and walk up to the apartment entrance ( _warm_ and comfortable and maybe she’s keeping the curtains open so he can watch her read for a bit) but he halts as he hears a choked cry.

“I _love_ you.” But love shouldn’t sound like her heart’s ripping out of her throat.

That fucking _asshole_ should be holding her close after something like that, should be telling her he feels the same and treasuring her, counting her kisses like coins and treasuring the golden sound of her laughter. Instead, Dog only hears the softly rumbled, “You cannot mean that.”

“If I’m saying things, I think I _damn_ well know what I mean.”

“You… you are nineteen. Love to a nineteen year old is not the same thing as to someone my age.” And Dog wants to grab his neck and smash his head against the wall because you just don’t _say_ things like that, not to someone you’re supposed to love and cherish and whose presence should be your fucking sunlight.

“Doesn’t mean it’s less real.”

If Dog were lucky enough to be in Fawkes’ place, he’d be on his knees and begging her to forgive him. Hell, he wouldn’t even have let it go this far—just hold her and never let her feel anything but cherished. She’s light and music, air and water and more precious than the blood in his veins. Her presence feeds his soul.

“I am sorry, Jinx.” That fucking _bastard_ has the gall to actually sound apologetic. “It would be best if I left.”

“ _No_ , don’t go! Please, _please_ don’t go…”

The sound of her frantic steps, rustling cloth, and then a heavy tread back. More tears, a high keening cry that stabs Dog through the heart, but Fawkes’ must be stone since he murmurs “goodbye,” and Dog hears him step away. Jinx gives a soft hiccup, and then rapid footfalls as she runs up the stairs and into the building.

It takes all of Dog’s self-control not to seize Fawkes by the collar as he walks by. The super mutant gives him a startled look with red-rimmed eyes—like that asshole has the fucking _right_ to be upset after what he just put that girl through—but Dog just elbows past him, because if he hurries, maybe he can catch her in the elevator and let her know that it’s all going to be okay, that everything’s going to be all right. Not because stupid scarred Dog’s sniffing around the edges, not because Dog loves her—but because it’s better for her to be alone than with someone who doesn’t return her feelings. Because she’s strong and amazing, sweet and kind and this will heal. Because time will be her friend, because she has so much life ahead of her and an asshole like that won’t even register next to all the wonderful things she has yet to experience.

It’s the first time she doesn’t hold the elevator for him, but Dog doesn’t hold it against her—her face is buried in her hands, shoulders trembling and he thinks even now, even with all her pain and tears she _would_ have let him in if she’d seen him. So he takes the stairs instead, jumping up two, three steps at a time. They’re too small for his feet and he trips and catches himself against the railing twice, but he makes it up just in time to hear the elevator open. She races down the hall to her apartment and Dog _wants,_ and wants and wants to chase her down and hold her but _fuck_ that’s not appropriate. It won’t make her feel better and he’d be crossing too many lines.

So he goes to his room, sitting bleakly by the window. Waiting for her. Watching her.

She paces her room like a caged animal, screaming and beating her fists against the wall. Then she flings herself on the bed, slamming her hand into the mattress and curled up against her pillow.

He’s never seen her anything but happy.

And he hates himself for his selfish joy at knowing she’s now single.

 

.O.O.

 

He keeps watching, of course—the nightly ritual continues, as loneliness has not dampened her ardor—but his gut twists because afterwards instead of simply lying limp and content, she curls on her side to stroke an empty half of the bed. Occasionally she hugs her pillow tight, legs curled in and rocking herself.

He doesn’t get to do more than watch until a month later, just past Valentine’s Day. (And he wonders how the little neighbor-girl spent that day. He hopes she was out with friends, celebrating being single. He hopes she knows it’s better to be alone than lonely, that she deserves so much better than cheap sentimental cards.)

“Hey, sorry the dinner was such a drag.”

“No worries.” Her tone is light and noncommittal, lacking her usual chirpiness. “Thanks for dropping me off.”

“Kind of a shame to end the date so early though. I know Butch is out late at that D&D thing, so do you maybe wanna…?”

Dog seethes, feeling a tight spasm of jealousy—unreasonable, he knows, especially as he has no claim on the woman either, but he still _wants_ her—clench in his gut as he rounds the corner to the entrance of their apartment building. The boy is unfamiliar, but Dog has no interest in him beyond banishing him from the premises.

“No. I’m working tomorrow, so can’t be up late,” she demurs, and Dog—stupid Dog with the scarred face and the purple skin and all the familiarity in the little ways that women say ‘no’—recognizes that as a brush-off.

Apparently the boy does not, or he is ignoring it. “Hey, we don’t have to be up too late. Maybe just have a little coffee, chat a bit—“

Dog cannot resist butting in, stopping by the pair and looming to his full eight feet of height. “Hello neighbor,” he says, smiling at her but with his gaze on the young man, who gulps and takes a step back. “This man bothering you?” _Can I break his arm for you? Could I kill him for you?_ But those are thoughts for another time, another place—nightmares and chains, completely out of place with her sky-blue eyes.

“Nah,” she says quickly, but immediately follows up with, “He was just leaving. Goodnight, Wally.”

The boy has the sense not to contradict her, instead turning and walking back along the path with his shoulders slumped.

She exhales with exasperation, brushing back a curl of hair. “Thanks for that,” she says, fishing her key out of one pocket and letting them both in the apartment complex. “I could have handled it on my own, but that made it a lot easier.”

“Some men don’t respect a woman’s ‘no’ unless they think she belongs to someone else,” Dog grunts.

Her laughter is like silver rain, cool and cleansing. “That’s one way to put it. Hey, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Jinx. And you are?”

“Dog.”

They both get in the elevator and she hits the button for their floor. He tries to think about what to say, what to ask, what sweet words might charm her heart and win her over. His looks work against him, but he _knows_ so much about what she likes based on his nightly viewings, but starting a conversation with ‘hey, I watch you masturbate every night’ is _really_ not the way to endear oneself to anyone.

She fills the silence instead, grinning up at him with a crescent-moon smile. “Kind of funny how our windows face each other, but we never really met. Do you have a roommate?”

“No. I use the extra room as a workout space.”

“Ah. Should’ve guessed from those muscles,” she chuckles, reaching out as if to pat his bicep. Then she blinks, drawing her hand back and shaking her head. “Sorry. Was just—sorry. Thinking of someone else.”

“You and Fawkes broke up?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. It’s the only topic he can think of latching on to.

“Mhm.” Jinx swallows, eyes suddenly glistening too brightly. The elevator door dings open, and she walks out quickly. “Yeah. Just didn’t work out.”

“He is a fool.” Dog doesn’t mean to growl it, but the hostile edge escapes anyway, causing her to give him a startled look. Realizing just how much that betrayed, Dog decides there is no point in hiding anything else. “You are a smart, kind girl and if he didn’t do his damnedest to hold onto you, that’s his own fucking fault.”

“How do you know I’m smart and kind?” she asks, crossing her arms and chuckling.

“Sometimes I see you walk out with a university hoodie. You’re a college student, right?” At her nod, he adds, “That’s how I know you’re smart. Plus you read a lot. Good taste in books. And you’re—” _You’re kind to a scarred scrapyard dog like me, and don’t wince or flinch when I pass by._ “—and you’re kind,” he finishes lamely.

“That’s… huh. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in a while. Thank you.” She chews her lower lip, and he knows that her apartment is down at the opposite end of the hall, but she isn’t making any move to walk away. Then again, _he’s_ not moving, but he doesn’t want this conversation to end.

“Um. I know this might seem—I mean, this isn’t a date. I don’t want to give the wrong idea, especially since I just finished up a lousy date with octopus-hands, but… if you’re not doing anything, want to come over? I was just going to watch a movie and eat some ice cream, but there’s enough for two.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and his face creaks into an unfamiliar position. A smile.

“I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Extended author's notes and babbling on tumblr. [Here.](http://chocochipbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/101610558680/authors-notes-neighbors)


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